


The Problem with Pym Particles

by Grimmalie



Series: The Adventures of Little Coulson [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, I don't even know what's wrong with me, Little Coulson - Freeform, M/M, Pym Particles, Romance, Shrinking, Smut, Weird smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmalie/pseuds/Grimmalie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Phil is allergic to Pym particles, which nobody even knew was possible.</p><p>--</p><p>This is going to be a series of short scenes and ficlets based on some idle doodles by Dr-Kara (http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/).  So... it's all her fault, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The problem with Phil

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a series of short scenes and ficlets based on some idle doodles by Dr-Kara (http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/). So... it's all her fault, really.

There were a lot of things people didn’t know about Phil Coulson. For example, there weren’t many people in the world who knew or even suspected that he was gay. The popular theory was that he was suit-sexual, and was privately getting off each time he showed up in a new Lehman Brothers or Nordstrom.

People didn’t know that Phil knew about these theories and, because of his equally unknown sense of humor, would sometimes take a little too long smoothing down his tie when an impressionable young intern was watching. Life was short. Paperwork was boring. Even Phil Coulson needed a little entertainment.

In fact, Phil’s sense of humor was such that nobody from his Ranger days even called him Phil. They’d all called him Cheese. So nobody knew why, when Phil was recovering from a particularly bad gunshot wound, Fury had thought a basket packed with brie, gouda, cheddar, feta, and mozzarella was a good idea, or why Phil had laughed until the nurses kicked Fury out.

There were so many things people didn’t know about Phil Coulson, but there were also a few things he didn’t know about himself. He didn’t know just how much he’d come to appreciate the color purple before a certain agent walked into his life. Or how much he’d enjoy using those expensive ties for just the sort of purpose those impressionable interns thought he did, if that agent was helping him.

Or that he was highly allergic to Pym particles.

If Phil was going to be perfectly honest with himself, that one caught him completely off guard.


	2. The problem with scientists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a series of short scenes and ficlets based on some idle doodles by Dr-Kara (http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/). So... it's all her fault, really.

Phil didn’t really care for Hank Pym. A lot of people didn’t. At least, not as a superhero. He’d been a little hard to deal with even before he became Ant-man (along with a dozen other superheroes. He went through identities like others went through old underwear). Prolonged exposure to Pym particles had made him downright unstable. So Phil was not thrilled to see Hank Pym in a SHIELD lab running some sort of experiment with said particles. Dr. Banner hovered over his shoulder, looking mildly unsettled.

“Hank, I really think you should let me-”

“I know how to handle them, Dr. Banner, they were named after me.”

“Yes, but SHIELD equipment-”

“It isn’t that hard to adjust.”

“This equipment is really-”

There was a low squeak, a hiss, and Phil felt as though he’d been smacked in the face by a hot iron. He gagged, eyes watering as he gripped the lab table for support. Abruptly, the hiss stopped and the sensation of being engulfed in a burning cloud dissipated. Phil coughed a couple of times for good measure, then glanced up to see both Pym and Banner staring at him with wide eyes. He glanced down at the machine, attached to a tank labeled ‘Property of Henry Pym’, and swore very creatively on the inside.

“Tell me that was not what I thought it was!” he demanded.

“Ah… well…,” Dr. Banner muttered, glancing down at the quick patch in his equipment. Pym followed suit, most likely to avoid the withering glare Phil was shooting at him. The seconds ticked by on the clock, and Phil could swear his skin was starting to prickle with that horrible pins-and-needles feeling. His gut clenched. Should he grab something? Brace himself?

“Must not have been that bad a leak,” Pym muttered, glancing back up at him with a deep frown. “A reaction should have been instantaneous. My best guess is you didn’t get enough in your system.”

Phil didn’t allow them to see his inward grimace. That hadn’t felt like a small leak. That felt like someone had opened the tank and emptied it in his face. He was briefly horrified by the idea of his head shrinking down into nothing while the rest of his body remained the same. He needed to stop coming down to these labs. SHIELD had dozens of junior agents and interns with nothing better to do than gossip. They could be exposed to whatever horror was being cooked up.

Scowling at Pym, Phil dropped a file down on the table in front of Bruce.

“Diplomatic envoy. Asgardians are coming for a visit. It’s been requested that all active Avengers be there to greet them.”

“Sounds like a nice vacation from smashing.” Dr. Banner picked up the folder and glanced idly through the procedures. “Did Thor arrange this?”

“He’s very proud. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, Dr. Banner.”

Phil turned heel and made his way out of there before they could expose him to any other potentially harmful substances.


	3. The problem with unexpected battles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a series of short scenes and ficlets based on some idle doodles by Dr-Kara (http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/). So... it's all her fault, really.

“Try to be a professional, Barton.”

“I love it when you get all commanding, sir.”

Phil would have retorted with something appropriately menacing, but he hadn’t been feeling well. Even a night’s rest and a good scrub in the shower hadn’t been enough to rid him of the feeling of something wrong. He hadn’t expected to be so shaken by the incident in Pym’s lab. It wasn’t the first time he’d been exposed to something dangerous, and in this case he didn’t even appear to be suffering any side effects, but the fact remained. Phil Coulson felt off.

Clint watched him out of the corner of his eye, the humor fading from his face.

“Everything all right, sir?”

“Just stand up straight and pretend you’re an adult for the visiting dignitaries.”

Clouds began to gather overhead, lightning arcing across the sky as the bifrost neared the atmosphere. Static prickled across Phil’s already over-sensitive skin and he had to bite back a grimace. Clint hadn’t glanced away and, with each passing moment, his frown deepened.

“Sir…”

Whatever Clint had been about to say was drowned out in the loud boom of the bifrost touching down. The dust cleared, but it wasn’t the Asgardian royal family that stood in the field before them. Phil had seen images of the dark elves before and, suddenly, he understood why the original word meant nightmare. No picture did them justice.

The team dispersed, immediately fighting off the oncoming attack. Phil reached for his gun and whipped it out, but the pins-and-needles feeling was back, worse than before. The world swayed around him. His head throbbed and, all at once, he felt too big for his skin. Then too small. Damn. He’d check into medical when all this was over but, for now, he just needed to get out of this situation alive.

He blinked away the haze and held up his gun, firing straight into the chest of a rampaging elf. It worked out well enough, except he’d been aiming for its head. Phil tightened his grip on the gun, but it felt heavy and unwieldy. His jacked sleeves bunched uncomfortably around his wrists, making it difficult to keep his grip.

Phil froze and glanced up again. Nearby, Steve stood a good head above him. Steve was tall, but not that tall. Phil’s breath hitched in his chest and his gut clenched as, with an uncomfortable feeling of dropping down a roller coaster, he dropped a few more inches. 

Fucking Pym!

Phil dropped the gun and scrambled to get out of the action, even as his gut clenched and his skin tightened and the world grew around him. Something blasted near him, crashing into the earth. He made to duck, but he couldn’t control his footing in his now too-big shoes. His heart raced as voices shouted in his growing earpiece.

“Coulson, report!”

“Where are you?”

Phil tried to push himself back up, but his clothes were ballooning around him, tripping him up before he could even stand. He took a quick assessment of his surroundings. He estimated he was roughly four feet by now, and the reaction was speeding up. He had to find some sort of cover before he got himself killed. Someone would find him, assuming…

Assuming he was still big enough to be found when this was all over. The thought of shrinking so small the team couldn’t see him, dying in a field in upstate New York because Pym didn’t have the brains to check his equipment in a foreign lab, was not appealing.

Phil gathered up his clothes around him as best he could and made for a nearby copse of trees. Not much in the way of cover, but far enough away from the firefight that he wouldn’t be underfoot, endangering himself or his team. With every step the trees grew farther away, the grass grew longe, inching up his legs. The clothes grew heavy until, at last, he stopped a good yard away, unable to drag his load another step. His heart jumped into his throat as he found himself shrinking into the folds of his jacket, silently calculating his height as the sky disappeared and he was left in the dark. Maybe two feet now… a foot and a half. One? It felt like it went on forever. Phil didn’t dare try and push his way through the weight of his clothes and draw attention to himself. It sounded like the battle was going in their favor, but he couldn’t take any risks.

At last, the sounds died down. There was a lot of clamor, then what had once been his earpiece crackled.

“Coulson? Where are you, man, you’re freaking us out?”

Phil pushed through the folds, scrambling for the earpiece. When he reached it… his stomach dropped. He had to press down with both hands to get it working.

“By the woods!” he shouted. “Repeat, I am by the woods.”

“Mind repeating that it’s coming in a little fuzzy.”

Someone else must have understood what Phil meant, though, because the next thing he knew there were loud footsteps thundering toward him. Shit! If someone didn’t realize he was in here…

The dark fabric shifted abruptly as someone nudged it with their foot. Phil grabbed for the earpiece and shouted.

“Do not kick the clothes! I am in here. I repeat, I am in here. Will someone get Dr. Banner?”

There was a low rumble of conversation above him that made Phil wonder if anyone had even heard him. Then the clothes were shifting again. Phil grabbed for the earpiece before he lost what was probably his best line of communication, just before whoever was up there reached down and grabbed him.

Phil wasn’t aware of just how much he disliked being grabbed before a hand that was bigger than he was wrapped around him and picked him up forcibly. Phil was completely out of control in this situation, naked as the day he was born, and helpless to the whims of… Clint Barton, as it turned out. Phil was a little grateful it was Clint and not, say, Steve who had picked him up, and Clint was gentle. Someone didn’t get to be as skilled as Clint was in archery without having nimble hands, but it was still humiliating. At least, Phil mused, he could finally gauge his proper height. He could probably safely estimate himself at five, maybe six inches tall. In his mind, he’d pictured himself dwindling away until they had to carry him around on a coin just to know where he was.

For all that Phil was relieved, Clint was openly horrified.

“Sir?” he croaked, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. It was at that moment that Phil realized the rest of the team was there and could probably see him, too. He dropped the earpiece and immediately covered what the rest of the Avengers had no business seeing before stepping down on the earpiece.

“Hawkeye, report!” he demanded. “Where is Dr. Banner?”

“Uh, he’s kind of MIA. Scouts place him in a cave. He’s calm, they decided to monitor rather than tranq him.” The orders seemed to be doing Clint some good. “The threat’s been neutralized and we’re waiting for Thor to tell us what the fuck happened with that…”

By the look Clint was giving him, he was waiting for Phil to explain what the fuck had happened with this. Phil sighed and silently vowed to eviscerate Pym when he got the chance.

“Just get me out of here,” he hissed. 

“Uh, how should I-“

“Give me your handkerchief and carry me back to the Quinjet, because I sure as hell am not going in anyone’s pocket!”


	4. The problem with check-ups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a series of short scenes and ficlets based on some idle doodles by Dr-Kara (http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/). So... it's all her fault, really.

The ride back was uncomfortable to say the least. Phil was wrapped in Clint’s handkerchief, sitting in Clint’s hand on the off chance they had some turbulence, because God knew Phil couldn’t wear a seatbelt right now. He shuddered to think what would happen if he fell. A few feet suddenly went a long way.

The others pretended they weren’t overtly staring the whole time. This was the most difficult for Tony, who kept getting nudged by Steve every time he opened his mouth.

“It doesn’t make sense, though,” Tony objected, ignoring the shove and peevish look he earned from Steve. “So you’re a pipsqueak now-“ shove “because of Pym particles. But everyone knows Pym particles are instantaneous in effect.”

“We’ll just have to wait until Bruce has something to say on the matter.”

“What I don’t understand,” Steve said evenly. “Is why you didn’t immediately check into medical.”

Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and getting lectured by Captain America was the last thing he needed right now. Yes, he should have gone to medical. There were a lot of things Phil was supposed to do that, due to the sheer issue of time, he didn’t. Eat healthy, sort through his old paperwork, check into medical to prevent himself from shrinking down to the size of his own palm…

Clint, who hadn’t said anything the whole way, dropped his hand down to the seat, sufficiently hiding Phil from view.

“Come on guys, give him a break. We’ll sort all this out when we get back to HQ.”

Phil could have kissed Clint, if the situation allowed it. Barring that, he gave Clint's huge, calloused palm a soft rub that he probably couldn't feel.

It was remarkable how adaptable they were all capable of being after a while. It came with being spies and superheroes, Phil supposed. So he’d been shrunk down to the size of a soda can and was wearing nothing but a handkerchief. By the time they reached SHIELD, they’d all adjusted to it.

Of course, then they had to go into medical, where Nick Fury was waiting for him.

“What do you mean you knew this was a possibility?” he boomed. Phil, especially at his current size, wasn’t about to point out that it wasn’t necessary to yell. Hell, they could all whisper and he’d hear them just fine.  
“I mean I was aware of my exposure, but given that there is no precedent for this kind of delayed reaction-“

“We have protocols in place for a reason. This is the reason. Phil, you’re my protocol guy. If I can’t trust you to follow the damn rules, how the hell am I supposed to keep these assholes in line?” He gestured at the infirmary at large, where the others lingered, failing to be inconspicuous. Phil’s head started to ache. Right when he wasn’t in a position to take an aspirin.

“I’m calling it,” Phil sighed wearily. “Bangladesh.”

He hated bringing up their old misadventures but, sometimes, it was the only way to shut him up. Nick Fury owed Phil approximately thirty four favors. It was worth shrinking down to thirty three to avoid a write-up. Fury’s face froze and, slowly, he folded his arms behind his back.

“Noted. Don’t pull anything stupid. I’ve got paperwork to do.”

Fury turned heel and Phil had to smile. He’d picked a good favor to call on.

A nurse approached, brandishing a syringe uncertainly, and Phil took an involuntary step back. The eye of the needle was about as big as one of Phil’s own eyes.

“That’s not gonna work,” Clint pointed out. The nurse sighed.

“No, it isn’t. And I don’t know how we can safely take any samples big enough without killing him.”

Phil hated himself before the words left his lips.

“Someone get Pym.”


	5. The problem with pockets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a series of short scenes and ficlets based on some idle doodles by Dr-Kara (http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/). So... it's all her fault, really.

“I never realized it was possible to be allergic to Pym particles,” Pym babbled. Ultimately, he’d managed to obtain Phil’s blood and urine sample by shrinking down with the necessary equipment, taking the samples, and returning to his normal size, leaving Phil sitting on the hospital bed feeling vaguely jealous.

“What do you mean allergic?” Steve asked with a frown. Pym didn’t even glance up from his microscope.

“Pym particles can be absorbed to this extent only as the result of frequent use. Given that Agent Coulson was exposed very briefly to a very small sample, it shouldn’t be showing up in his system like this.” He adjusted the microscope. “He should have also shrunk immediately. It looks as though it fused with his system and sparked only upon the initial adrenaline rush of the battle. But it’s since gone dormant again. It’s downright unpredictable.” He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Which means we can’t just zap him back to his old size, either. It could kill him.”

“Then what do we do?” Clint demanded. Pym shrugged.

“Wait for me to find an answer. I suppose it’s possible for some people to simply respond differently. We don’t have a wide enough range of previous subjects to know for sure.”

“But how am I supposed to do my job?” Phil demanded. To his dismay, they went right on talking.

“How do we know this isn’t going to kill him?” Clint asked.

“We don’t. That’s why I’m looking into it. Do you know how science works? Because we don’t all have the answers right away.”

Phil glanced helplessly between the two of them. Pym and Clint looked like they were about to come to blows. This was where Phil would usually step in, tell Clint to take a walk, and put Pym right back to work. Except that wasn’t an option for him. All he could do was pull himself to his full, if inconsiderable, height, and hope someone remembered he was there.

In the end, Steve was the one to step in before Clint could break Pym’s nose.

“Hank, thank you. We’d really appreciate knowing anything you can tell us as soon as you can. Clint.” He turned to Clint. From this angle, Phil could see the subtle slump of Steve’s shoulders, the weariness that tugged at his face. “It looks like we may end up waiting this out. Why don’t you go ahead and take him home. We’ll call you.”

Clint hesitated, then his eyes flicked down to Phil and all the fight went out of him. Silently, he set his hand down on the table. Phil gathered the heavy folds of the handkerchief around him and, pretending the entire room wasn’t staring at him, stepped up onto Clint’s huge, calloused hand.

“You’ll know where to reach us,” Clint said before he turned and left the room.

The good thing about being with Clint was that he knew all the back ways around SHIELD, including how to reach the parking garage without exposing Phil to more unfriendly eyes. Phil was momentarily relieved until he saw exactly what Clint had ridden into work that day.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned. Clint’s bike, ordinarily something Phil loved to see (and who didn’t like to see Agent Barton pulling up on that beautiful piece of machinery?) made his stomach drop. There was nowhere for him to sit, and virtually no guarantee that, were they to crash, he would even survive.

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t exactly plan for this… you’ll have to ride in my pocket.”

“I’m not doing that.”

Clint groaned and shrugged.

“Well, I can’t drive with just one hand, and at your size, you’d get blown out of my hand before I even hit 20.”

Phil glared up at him, which Clint pretended not to notice as he raised Phil up to the level of his jacket’s breast pocket. Pragmatically, Phil knew Clint was right. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. Scowling deeply, he grabbed the edge of the pocked and pulled himself in. There was a bit of lint, a rubber band, and a paperclip, likely the materials for a makeshift bow when he wanted to pester an intern. Phil settled himself down in the corner and stared up at the thin slash of light above him, and even that faded when Clint zipped the pocket shut.


	6. The problem with coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a series of short scenes and ficlets based on some idle doodles by Dr-Kara (http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/). So... it's all her fault, really.

The ride home was not comfortable. Phil was being buffeted by windspeeds that, frankly, could kill him if he wasn’t in the pocket, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t buffeted by the lining of Clint’s pocket the entire way. He had trouble breathing, and found it was easiest to just curl up and focus on the feeling of being pressed up against Clint’s chest.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally arrived at their apartment. It had been all Phil could do to prevent Clint from living in the kind of run down neighborhood he preferred (and he claimed he wasn’t addicted to hero-ing). Now, more than ever, Phil was grateful they lived in a nice part of town. Even though he was safely tucked into Clint’s pocket, the reality of just how stupidly small he was got to him. Made him twitchy. He found himself counting every step Clint took, registering the creak of the loose stair, the jingle of keys as Clint let himself inside, and still he didn’t feel at ease. 

A band of light stretched slowly above him as Clint zipped open the pocket and reached in with his large fingers. Phil’s instinct was to scramble away, but he remembered himself enough to accept the help and reach for Clint’s thumb, barely keeping the handkerchief wrapped around himself as Clint pulled him free.

His stomach lurched as he flew up, up… then it dropped as he saw what had once been his familiar apartment. The living room alone stretched out like an endless land populated by oversized furniture and junk, and Phil felt like Alice in Wonderland. Too small for this place, but nowhere else to go.

Clint must have seen his bereft expression because he was a little too cheerful when he said;

“Let’s eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Fighting frost giants’ll take it out of you, huh?”

Dinner was a single plate of spaghetti. No need to cook for Phil. He just ate what he needed off Clint’s plate with a fork he fashioned out of a third of a broken toothpick. It might have been romantic to share an Italian dinner, especially since Clint was an excellent cook, if the circumstances had been any different. Phil was having a hard time fighting of the crushing threat of depression now that he was home and his guard was coming down. This had always been such a safe place for him. It wasn’t fair that it now felt as unreal and unsafe as anywhere else.

Clint was drying his damndest (and failing) to not stare as he ate. Finally, he sat back in his seat and shook his head.

“Phil, you know this isn’t the end of the world, right?”

Phil navigated another too-large bite of pasta to his mouth.

“I’m aware.”

“So… no reason to look like that. I mean, you’re still the boss. You’re still in charge. So there’s no reason to look like that.”

Phil shot him a scowl, and Clint grimaced.

“Yeah, sounded stupid in my head, too.”

“Comforting’s not really your thing.”

“In my defense, if the situation was reversed you’d suck just as much as me.” Clint gestured at him. “Do you really want to keep wearing that?”

Phil glanced down at the handkerchief.

“I don’t think I have any choice,” he muttered, trying not to sound as miserable as he sounded. Clint licked his lips, then rose without a word. Phil normally wouldn’t care but, since this had happened to him, he found himself strangely anxious when alone. Quite possibly because, for the first time since he was a child, he wasn’t able to remain independent. He couldn’t even leave the table without help. Not if he wanted to avoid breaking his legs by jumping.

A full two minutes later, Clint returned with a box that Phil recognized. It was the ‘Shit Kids Send Me’ box that Clint pretended he wasn’t extremely proud of. It was packed with drawings, cards, toys, letters, stickers, and whatever else anyone under the age of sixteen thought they’d sent him as a ‘thank you’ for his service with the Avengers. It wasn’t as much as any of the Big Four (or so the four central super-powered members of the team were often called) got, but Clint loved every one.

Which was why Phil knew he was supposed to be honored when Clint pulled out a Barbie doll in a plain purple shift and purple boots.

“Clint, for the love of-”

“Hey, I know you aren’t 100% opposed to this sort of thing. We’ve talked about this.”

“We’ve talked about kinky bedroom stuff, Clint, not me wearing it around the apartment.”

“Look, I’m the only one who’ll see it, and I’m not asking you to put on the boots. I’m just asking you to wear something you don’t have to worry will fall off. At least until we can figure out something more effective.”

Phil hoped he wouldn’t be stuck like this long enough to necessitate something more effective. With a resigned sigh, Phil stepped out of the handkerchief, thereby breaking there ‘No nudity in the kitchen’ rule (a rule that Clint had established after the Great Thanksgiving Disaster). Clint stripped the dress off the Barbie and handed it to Phil who, flushing deeply, pulled it on. It was surprisingly comfortable for an article of clothing never actually designed to be worn. And, if he was perfectly honest, wearing something like this stirred something in him… there was a reason they’d talked about this, after all. It was just too bad he wasn’t at a size big enough to really take advantage of it.

Clint grinned widely down at him as he returned the now naked Barbie to the box.

“Gosh, sir, aren’t you just the prettiest princess in the world?”

“I can still find ways to hurt you,” Phil informed him coolly. “I’m creative like that.”

Clint chuckled and cleared off the table. Usually this was their ritual. When they both managed to be home at night, they made a point of doing chores together. Phil never thought he’d feel bereft of chores, but he sat on the edge of the table, not quite close enough to the edge to let his legs dangle off the side, and felt very small and very fragile.

Of course, Clint insisted they stick to their usual routine; curling up on the couch and watching trash TV. They usually did it in marathons. Supernanny, Wifeswap, Pawn Stars, Deadliest Catch, Tabatha Takes Over, Face-Off, whatever had more than five episodes on Tivo. Tonight it was Duck Dynasty, which wasn’t really reality TV because half of it was too obviously scripted, but it was amusing. Clint made a point of carrying Phil to a cushion and letting him sit there alone. It was harder to see the screen from that angle, and Phil kept having to shift so he didn’t fall back between the cushions, but he appreciated the independence.

After an episode passed, he found himself relaxing enough that he missed Clint’s touch. And, hell, he was already five inches tall and wearing a Barbie dress. He was beyond humiliation. While Clint fast forwarded through a commercial, Phil clambered up onto his leg, gripping the fabric tightly for support. Clint, ever adaptable, barely missed a beat and let one hand fall down beside him, nestling Phil in the crook of his thumb and trigger finger. As the next episode played, Phil found himself leaning back, then curling up against the warm, calloused skin.

A commercial came on for another show and, for whatever reason, Clint didn’t fast forward through it. Phil felt an unexpectedly gently brush against his thigh from Clint’s too-big thumb, He always had had a light touch. Phil stiffened and glanced up at Clint, who was doing an admirable job pretending he was just watching TV.

Phil sucked in a shuddering breath as the thumb moved again, moving a little farther north. His cock twitched in interest, his heart beating wildly. This was an enormously bad idea, but… the idea of remaining absolutely celibate for as long as this nightmare lasted wasn’t a fun one. And it might pay to see if this was possible.

Phil felt a little lightheaded as he shifted to give Clint better access and gasped softly when the rough bad of Clint’s thumb pressed down on him. There was no dexterity to the movement, no real skill. Just rubbing and pressure, but it sent a pleasant warmth through Phil’s body.

Clint smirked softly and flicked his wrist, and just like that Phil was airborne, balanced on Clint’s fingers, panting at the unbelievable pressure. Stars danced in front of his eyes as Clint rubbed him, delicately supporting him… and all at once Phil was scared. Plain and simple. It was something he’d never experienced with Clint, not like this. If Clint wanted to, he didn’t have to stop. And Phil would be powerless against him. Just like that, all sense of lust or pleasure died, and Phil just felt profoundly uncomfortable. He squirmed, reaching up to steady himself on one of Clint’s fingers.

“C-Clint,” he grunted. Clint, misunderstanding, grinned even wider.

“Ssh, it’s fine. Just you and me, just relax into it.”

“N-no…” Phil flushed brightly and he squeezed Clint’s finger tighter. “No, Clint, stop. Stop, this isn’t… I don’t want this.”

Immediately, the movement stopped. Clint set Phil down on the couch like he was on fire, folding his hands in his lap, far from where they could threaten, even with the best of intentions. Guilt curled in Phil’s gut. Damn everything.

“I’m sorry,” Clint sighed. Phil reached out to tough the side of Clint’s leg, the best comfort he could offer.

“It’s fine,” he said evenly. “We’ll just… we can try again. But not tonight.”

Clint nodded silently, and they remained like that, finishing the episode. Afterwards, Clint very reluctantly held out a hand for Phil and carried him into the bathroom.

They bathed; Clint in the shower, Phil in the sink with the water on a slow drip. They brushed their teeth; Clint with an actual toothbrush, Phil with his finger. Then they slept. Clint in their bed, Phil on the bedside table on top of a pile of soft rags. It was the closest either of them would get to normal for a good, long time.

Phil lay awake for a while, staring through the darkness at his too-big boyfriend, who was taking all of this in stride. They’d make it work. They had to. He had that much hope, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's not very much of a three-act story, but I think, from here, I'm just going to tell this as a series of one-shots in the 'Adventures of Little Coulson' series. So you'll want to go there for updates.


End file.
